


Focal Point

by Hecate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate/pseuds/Hecate
Summary: Derek is trapped in a dark room. Stiles is on the road. It's not enough to keep them apart.





	Focal Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_milky_way](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_milky_way/gifts).



They have been on the road for days now, miles slipping by in an unsteady rhythm, motels and pit stops and the briefest of breaks to stretch their legs. 

For now, Scott is driving.

And Stiles is dreaming.

There's darkness in his dream, a room filled with the stink of decaying food and much worse, a room without windows and a wall that's gritty and damp against his searching hands. There's no door. There never is.

But there's someone in the room with him.

He hears a rattling breath, wet and painful, a bitten down groan, and he turns to the bed that stands in one corner, the bed that he can't see but knows is there anyway. It's not the first time he's here.

Stiles walks through the room with careful steps, narrowly avoids the metal ring in the middle of it, feels the beginning of the chain through the tip of one shoe and follows it to the bed. Sits down on its edge, close enough to the dark shape of a body curled up at the wall to let him know he's there, far enough that an accidental touch won't hurt him.

He made that mistake before.

Stiles breathes in, closes his eyes against this awful darkness, and he tries to focus on where he is. Not the room itself but his own position, here in the dark, and somewhere else, on a road, in a car, with Scott steady and sure behind the wheel. 

And after a while, with his breath tight and anxious, and his stomach rolling, _he can't mess this up, can't be too slow, needs to be perfect,_ he feels it. Himself, somewhere else, and distance, slowly shrinking.

“We're coming,” he says.

Derek laughs.

Stiles wakes up.

Scott is looking at the road, driving faster than he probably should, but Stiles doesn't protest. He never does, swallowing requests for Scott to drive even faster.

Outside of the car's metal cocoon, the sun is shining. 

Stiles closes his eyes, wishes, for a moment, to go back into that room. Just so the world wouldn't be so bright. Just so that Derek wouldn't be so alone.

“We still good?” Scott asks.

Stiles nods. “Yeah.”

Scott smiles at him, reassurance and a promise, and turns his focus back on the road ahead of them. The road to Derek.

“We'll find him,” Scott says.

 _We have to,_ Stiles thinks.

Later, after a break at a pit stop, Scott curls up in the back-seat and Stiles takes his turn to drive, racing into the sunset, just as stupidly fast as Scott has been. He trusts that Scott will scare anyone away who tries to slow them down, even cops, if he has to. Scott promised that they would find Derek, after all.

And Stiles told Derek that they would.

He won't let either one of them break their word.

*~*

Stiles remembers the first time he dreamt of that room, remembers waking up and taking his nightmare with him into a sun filled day, all the shadows around him running deeper than they should and a strange certainty that something was irrevocably wrong.

He'd told himself that it was just a dream, had told himself to get over it. And he did, for a while.

He hasn't forgiven himself for that.

*~*

Another breakfast at some pit stop, cardboard pancakes and runny eggs, the coffee bad but black enough to send them on the road again, Scott tired-eyed but ungiving.

Stiles with his eyes closed, focused on the echoes of his dreams, trying to hold on to them, trying to follow them.

Derek, somewhere miles away from them, in the dark.

*~*

"I had a dream," he started, voice unsure, stilted, and he frowned when Scott raised a glass in answer.

"Always a good beginning," Scott said, voice warm with amusement.

"About Derek," Stiles replied, not sure what to say after, lost in uncertain thoughts.

A raised eyebrow was Scott only answer, the amusement still there, bending his lips into a slight smile.

"Dreams, really." A shudder ran through him, sharp, his body giving in to worry and weariness. "I think something is wrong."

The amusement faded out of Scott then.

And the reality of it stepped into the room, phone calls that were never answered, books about dreams and those who walk though them, the memory that Stiles wasn't quite what he used to be after the Nogitsune became a part of him and left him changed.

Scott believed him.

And they started to drive.

*~*

It's dark in his dream again, the room heaving with it, the smell of mould and wet stone surrounding Stiles. He stands still, holds his breath, is silent.

Hears Derek.

Takes a deep breath and crosses the room, sits down on the bed again.

“Derek,” Stiles says – asks, maybe – and waits for a reply.

Doesn't get one.

He stays where he is then, unmoving, silent, and he thinks of first seeing Derek, seeing him as a stranger, dark and dangerous, remembers seeing him again and again until his fear faded away, turned into something different, something sharper and less predictable. Something he didn't quite dare to touch back then, not yet. He had still had time, after all.

He tells himself that time hasn't run out on him.

Scott and him, they are still driving, after all.

And Derek is still alive.

“Don't give up,” Stiles tell him.

Thinks, _Please, don't give up._

*~*

“Where are you?” Lydia asks, and Stiles can hear the worry in her voice still as easily as he used to.

He looks out of the window and sees fields flying by, endless, featureless. Says, “On the road,” as if that would still mean anything.

“But you're okay,” she says, and he knows she means, 'You're not injured, no one stopped you, no one attacked you,' because that is the kind of okay they all are used to. The kind of okay they are all happy to be.

“Yeah,” he replies. “The others?”

“Chris called from Mexico. He doesn't think the Calaveras have anything to do with it. Braeden is still looking into her sources.” A pause, then, carefully, “We haven't found Cora yet.”

Stiles closes his eyes. Counts to five. Says, “Okay,” and tells himself not to think about Cora in another dark room, tells himself that Derek is in the hands of one fanatical hunter they can beat, not some kind of organization that has been spreading out without them noticing.

Then, “Keep me updated.”

“Of course,” Lydia says. And “Stay safe,” as if that has ever been an option since Peter came after Scott, came after Lydia.

Still, he nods to himself, says, “Will do,” before ending the call, and he gives Scott a weak smile when he tells him that they have no useful news.

“Better than bad news,” Scott says before he gets back behind the wheel.

Stiles gets into the car.

The road waits for them.

*~*

He reaches out for Derek in the dark, reaches out but doesn't quite touch him.

Says, “Derek,” and wakes up.

Blue skies are laughing at him.

*~*

A tire blows, sending the jeep almost off-road, Scott reigning the car in at the last moment, werewolf-reflexes and desperation.

They stop.

Scott stares out of the wind shield, his face carefully blank.

Stiles waits him out.

“We gonna end up in a ditch if we keep on going like this,” Scott finally says, voice scratchy, shaking, sounding as if the words forced themselves out of his mouth, unbidden and unwanted.

Stiles swallows, nods. “Yeah.”

Another silent moment, and they are not looking at each other, are looking at the road, at the horizon, the vastness of it, unreachable and untouchable.

“So, keep driving then?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.

*~*

“Stop,” Derek says in his dream.

Stiles blinks, stares into the darkness, tries to find the shadow among many that is Derek. Asks, “Derek?” and takes a step towards a corner, towards the huddling and shaking shape curled up there.

“Don't,” Derek says, and “You're not really here,” and his voice is so very quiet, a whisper that doesn't want to be.

Stiles tells himself not to think about the time it took to make Derek sound like that.

“But I am,” he says, taking a few careful steps. “I am, Derek.”

Derek moves then, unwinds himself from the heap he turned into, an arm stretching, reaching.

Reaching for Stiles.

But Stiles wakes up.

And he leaves Derek behind.

*~*

“We have to hurry,” he tells Scott when Scott turns on the blinker to turn into a pit stop.

Scott still drives on. “We are hurrying.”

And he's so calm about it, so fucking unworried about Derek's time slipping away, and Stiles is angry, suddenly, furious. It burns in his heart, his stomach, burns and aches, and it needs to go _somewhere_. He reaches for the wheel then, a sudden shove that surprises him, surprises Scott, too, and he tries to force the car back on the highway.

It goes off of the road instead, a swipe that kicks up sand, a wall of yellow, and Scott curses, steps on the brakes, fights to keep them steady. The car fights back, shaking violently, and for a moment Stiles thinks they will crash against a lone tree or flip to the side, the horizon dancing in front of him.

But it's over as quickly as it began, the car engine shuddering, an exhausted roar in the silence between them, and Stiles swallows blood, wipes it off his bitten lips with a shaky hand. 

“Shit,” Scott says, and “Are you okay?”

Stiles shrugs.

Scott nods then, gets out of the car, and Stiles watches as he circles it, knows that he's looking for blown tyres, for damage that will keep them grounded. Holds his breath until Scott returns, slipping back into the driver's seat. “Car is okay.”

“Okay,” Stiles repeats.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, and he turns the key in the ignition and brings the car back to life. 

They return to the highway, the sound of the tyres on the concrete a familiar melody, and they don't talk.

*~*

“Please,” Derek says, and his voice is tight and oddly breathless. “Stop.”

And Stiles does, in the middle of the room, right next to the metal ring, stops and waits.

“You're not here,” Derek says, and there's an echo in his desperation, of a wolf's growl, of a certainty. “You're not real.”

Stiles closes his eyes, counts to five, searches for himself in a car on a highway not so far away now. “Derek,” he starts.

“No,” Derek replies, voice suddenly hard. Repeats, “No,” quieter, but not any less certain.

And Stiles laughs, this short, little, sad sound, and says, “You're a stubborn idiot.”

A snort, bitter and tired. “But I'm not crazy.”

Stiles shakes his head, takes a step, says, “You're not,” and sees the sun through the car's window.

“You awake?” Scott asks. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says and wishes he wouldn't be.

*~*

“We found Cora,” his father tells him. “She's fine.”

Stiles knows he should feel relieved.

But he doesn't feel anything.

*~*

“He... Derek, he,” Stiles starts and he doesn't know how to put it in words, doesn't know how to describe Derek in the dark, Derek in that cage, Derek thinking that Stiles is just dream.

Scott looks away from him, looks outside of the windows. Says, much later, after miles, “Everyone loses hope sometimes,” and Stiles wants to argue, wants to say that Scott never did.

But Stiles remembers him in the rain in front of that hotel, remembers his face when he found out that Stiles killed Donovan. Remembers him and the blood on his chest and the wound not closing when they thought Derek was dead.

Remembers him, after Allison. Always, after Allison.

Reaches out with one hand, fingertips grazing Scott's shoulder before he grabs the wheel again, and he tells himself that Scott is fine now, that Scott is okay.

*~*

Jackson's voice is almost unfamiliar, older and more serious than Stiles ever expected it to be, and he sound weary in a way he hadn't even back then when Stiles and Lydia saved him from the hunters. “It's another Argent thing.”

“Chris?” Stiles asks, confused.

“Nah. The crazy aunt,” Jackson replies. “Some cult that has a hard on for the jaguar but hates wolves.”

Stiles breathes in. “Sounds like Kate.”

“Yeah,” Jackson replies. “Whatever. You gotta figure out the rest. My sources are fucking pissed I asked them about this.”

“So it's big,” Stiles says.

“No,” Jackson replies. “I think those fuckers are just really angry.”

*~*

He almost touches Derek in his dream, reaches out with a shaking hand. Tells himself to do it, to make Derek believe.

But Scott and he are still on the road.

And Derek is still in this room, this cage. Alone.

Stiles isn't sure they will make it.

So he doesn't reach out.

And hates himself for it once a blue sky stretches out above him.

*~*

“My sister seems to have collected some kind of … following,” Chris says, his voice dry. “They don't like Derek.”

Stiles swallows his reply, swallows the bitter laughter that threatens to break out of his mouth. Shoves his shoulder against the wall of the gas station, stares at the grey sky closing in just behind it. “You don't say.”

“That's good news, Stiles,” Chris goes on, distant and patient. “It means that they just got the jump on him. He's just behind some stupid walls.”

“Filled up with some stupid wolfs bane?” Stiles offers.

Chris is silent for a while. Then. “They didn't tell me where he is, Stiles.”

Stiles wants to argue, wants to rage, because Chris said it was stupid, Jackson said it was just some crazy assholes, and somebody should know where Derek is. But nobody does.

There's just this room in his head, in his dreams, and some line that connects them. It might be bullshit, might be nothing at all.

“Stiles,” Chris says, “the only guy who seemed to have some clue? He swallowed a cyanide pill before I could get it out of him.”

And Stiles laughs, because he has to, because it's all so freaking dumb. And he knows that Scott is looking at him all worried, can see it at the edge of his vision, but he can't bring himself to care. Says, “Do you think your sister would like those idiots?” and ends the call before he gets an answer.

*~*

Scott and he, they drive on. It's silent.

*~*

“When did you stop missing Allison?” Stiles asks, and he knows he sounds too bitter, too sharp. Knows and doesn't care and thinks of Allison and her dark eyes, Allison and her hands on a bow, her mouth in a smile.

Scott looks at him, his face blank for a few seconds, the moment stretching, snapping. “I didn't” he says, and he is quiet, calm. He sounds like maybe it was okay to miss her.

“And Kira?” Stiles asks, and he is angry and he doesn't know why, can't put it into words, just hates the way that people are gone and missing, hates all the absences in their lives. 

And maybe he wants to hurt Scott because some days, he seems to be over all of them.

Scott looks at him. Says, “Stiles,” and touches his arm. “It's just a few more miles,” he goes on but they have been saying that for a while now.

It's just a few more days.

Nothing at all.

And everything.

*~*

Derek looks at him in his dream and there's a new emptiness to his eyes, an emptiness Stiles can see even through the darkness.

It's mean and deep and there are shadows to it.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles says.

He doesn't tell Derek that they are coming.

He doesn't say much at all.

Later, with rain drops hitting the car, Scott says, “It was just a dream.”

And Stiles wants to laugh.

Wants to believe.

Does neither.

*~*

His dad sounds worried, but he almost always does, and the weariness in his voice, the pain, has become familiar.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

And Stiles says, “No,” because he isn't, because they haven't found Derek yet, because things were supposed to get better at some point. But his life is made of disasters and dead bodies and his friends... his friends.

“Stiles,” his dad says. “It's gonna be okay.”

And Stiles breathes in, says, “Sure,” and doesn't try to think about both of them lying to each other.

*~*

There's blood in his dream, old and dried, and the smell of it hits him, a vicious punch, and Stiles stumbles, tries to find his footing. And fails. His knees hit the ground with a painful thud, the fall stinging his wrists, sending tremors up his arms, when he finally catches himself.

“Shit,” and it's silent all around him, and there's still this smell, and Stiles can't hear Derek.

“Shit, shit, shit,” and Stiles is getting up, is tumbling through the room, hitting his foot against the metal ring, more falling then walking to the bed. Stops. Stands there and listens to the room, tries to find the sound of Derek breathing. But his heart is beating too fast, and he's breathing too wildly, and he can't hear anything but himself. 

It's the dumbest thing ever.

Stiles forces himself to reach out then, his fingers spread wide, the darkness surrounding them, him. He reaches out, and time slows down, seconds turning to hours. 

He finds Derek.

A groan in the dark, and a breath of relief, and Stiles settles on the bed, his fingers running down Derek's shoulder as gentle as possible, his arms, his sides. Derek pushes him away. But he's weak, and Stiles needs to know that he's okay, needs to know where the blood came from.

“I'm sorry,” he tells Derek. 

But he doesn't stop.

Derek has lost weight, way too much weight, and Stiles can feel his ribs when he runs his hands over Derek's chest, can feel the bones of his hips sharp through his clothes. It scares him. But it can't scare him away.

“You're annoying,” Derek tells him. “Figures. Annoying when you're real, annoying when you're not.”

And Stiles wants to argue but he doesn't because Derek hasn't sounded so much like himself since this all started and he wants to _keep_ it.

“Special skill,” he replies instead, and maybe he just imagines the brief huff of laughter, but maybe it's real. He smiles. 

Then he finds it.

Derek has tried to bite through his own ankle, has tried to free himself like that.

Stiles wakes up.

Throws up.

Scott stops the car. And Stiles tumbles out of it, tumbles and falls to his knees, dirt and dust and sweat and fear. Stays on his knees and doesn't look up when he hears Scott come around the car to find him, doesn't look up when he sees Scott's shoes by his side, feels Scott's hand on his shoulder.

“We have to find him,” he says, and it hurts to speak.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees.

Around them, the sunrise set the sky on fire.

*~*

There's light in his dream, light and Derek.

And it's warm and soft and so easy to reach out for Derek, to touch his face, fingertips dancing ever so lightly across his cheeks, his lips. There's heat there, under his touch, in his mind, and maybe he wants more of it. Stepping closer, stepping into Derek's warmth, leaning into him, Derek's arms strong around Stiles, a wall, a promise, and Stiles bends into him, bends up.

And then there's Derek's mouth on his, chapped lips and teeth and his beard scratchy against Stiles's skin, there's Derek's mouth and a kiss and Stiles thinking, 'This, this, this,' on repeat, a crazy rhythm, a drum his heart could beat to.

“Still good?” Scott asks, and Stiles is in a car, and there is still so much road ahead of them.

“I don't know,” Stiles replies.

“Different kind of dream?” Scott asks.

Stiles nods. It's shameful, it's terrible. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Scott says. And drives on.

*~*

“This is my fault,” Stiles says, and means, _We should find him faster,_ means, _I'm useless_.

“No,” Scott replies, and the certainty in his voice is terrifying, and Stiles doesn't quite understand how Scott can still put his faith in him.

“You don't know that,” Stiles goes on, voice shaking, and, “You don't know anything.”

Scott doesn't answer, just breathes, drives.

Then, after an eternity, after miles. “Just tell me where to go.”

Stiles closes his eyes. Searches for Derek.

*~*

They find the house in the afternoon.

It's painted blue, the colour breaking in the corners, flaking off in a lighter shade, frail pieces of wood like a débutante's dress. 

It's Scott who kicks the door in.

It's Scott who tears the wall down.

Stiles is just there.

Waiting.

Hoping.

*~*

“Derek,” Stiles says into the dark, the light from the broken wall dim behind him, a lantern in the night. “We're here.”

And he walks through the room, steps around the metal ring on the ground, follows the chain to the bed in the corner. Falls to his knees.

Waits.

Hears Derek move.

“You're not,” Derek says.

Stiles breathes in.

Reaches out.

And finds Derek's hand. Says, “I am.” Laughs, briefly, and looks at Scott. “We really are.”

Scott smiles, and there's a sharpness to it, weariness, and Stiles stays by Derek's side while Scott uses the tools from the jeep's trunk and pure, angry strength to dig and scratch and pull the metal ring out of the ground. It gives in with a scratchy sound, defiant to its last moment, and Stiles breathes out in relief when the chain slackens, hitting the ground.

“We're getting you out now,” Stiles says, and he freezes up for a moment when Derek groans under Scott's touch, the sound raw, painful.

“Sorry,” Scott says, but he has his arm under Derek's, pulling him to his feet, taking his weight, and Stiles feels useless next to them, useless because Scott is strong and Stiles isn't.

Scott carries, drags Derek out of the room and back into the world.

Stiles follows.

The moon greets them all.

*~*

Stiles wakes to the sound of Scott talking on the phone, closing the door behind him as he leaves their motel room. There's sunlight streaming in through the window, the hint of a warm embrace. He is in a chair, half-sitting, half-lying, and there's a blanket wrapped around him. His neck hurts.

Derek is lying on the bed. His eyes are open.

“Hey,” Stiles tries. And, “How are you?”

A shrug, such a careful motion, and Stiles thinks of getting up, of crossing the distance and touching Derek, just to make sure that he's really there. Just to show Derek that he is.

“Trying to find out if this is real,” Derek says.

Stiles nods, leans up, the blanket sliding down. “It is.”

Derek shrugs again. “I had … dreams in this room. There weren't real.”

A sigh, and Stiles gets up, ignores his aching body, walks to Derek's bed and sits down. The movement is familiar. “Of me?” he asks.

Derek stares at him.

“There weren't dreams, Derek,” Stiles says. “I was there. Sometimes. I don't know how.” Another sigh, and Stiles' finger grazes Derek's ankle, touches the bandage hiding his injury. “We really tried to find you faster.”

Derek is still looking at him.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles says.

Derek nods.

Says, “You were there,” stops, breathes, “And this is real.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.

And Derek says, “Okay,” as if it was simple, and there's a familiar steadiness in his voice, and his hand isn't shaking when he reaches out for Stiles.

For a moment, Stiles is scared. Of waking up, of being back in the car, the road still ahead of him. For a moment, he thinks he might be dreaming again.

But Derek touches him.

And Stiles doesn't wake up.


End file.
